


Freezing Footsies

by Lynnwood



Series: Adoribull Drabbles [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynnwood/pseuds/Lynnwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the snows of Emprise du Lion, the Iron Bull helps Dorian out with his 'freezing footsies.' Short little one-shot, feel the Adoribull lurve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freezing Footsies

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting to this site. I haven't written anything in a long, LONG time. Years, even. This is an attempt to knock off the rust. Adoribull owns my soul. Some of the dialogue is from the game, credit where it's due. Read on and hopefully enjoy.

“Why is it always so _cold?”_

The massive qunari warrior snorted a bit—half in humor, half in exasperation—at the huffy exclamation that sounded out from somewhere behind him. The Iron Bull was currently leading the small team of four through the snow-covered canyon in Emprise du Lion. They’d been tracking down a lead on a supposed red lyrium shipment and ran into a group of Red Templars because _of course_ they did. They’d had no trouble taking care of the not-entirely-unexpected threat, yet another shipment of the red stuff denied to Corypheus and his cronies. Now they were on their way back to camp for hopefully a few hours of rest before setting out once more in search of a whole mine of the stuff. Because that’s just what the world needed, a whole mine of the creepy shit.

Bull had been nominated to lead the pack by virtue of being the biggest and the strongest of the group, moving most of the knee-deep snow out of the way with his sheer bulk. He was wearing, or not wearing, his usual; just the leather shoulder guard that held his weapon harness and otherwise bare-chested above a thick leather belt, loose-fitting striped pants and boots. Qunari skin was denser than most other races. Combine that with the intricate black vitaar currently marking his chest and arms, Bull barely felt the cold.

Behind him came the boss, bundled up beneath a thick green cloak and using her staff as more of a walking stick but otherwise unperturbed with the weather. Behind her was Sera, making a giggly game of hopping from one of the Bull’s much larger footprints to the next as she followed along.

And then, finally . . . the ‘vint.

Of course it had been him who’d just spoken, his rich tenor Tevene accent clipped with even more indignation than usual. Dorian was wearing a cloak too but the gold and scarlet affair was clearly meant more for fashion than actual function. The dark-haired mage glowered now from beneath the brocaded hood of it, apparently taking great offense at the fact that none of his other companions seemed near as put out as he was with the cold.

“How do you southerners stand it?” he continued after a heartbeat or two of continued sulking. Iron Bull just rolled his good eye heavenward before glancing back over his shoulder and shooting the mage a patronizing smirk.

“What’s the matter?” he drawled. “Not enough slaves around to rub your footsies?” Those hazel eyes narrowed dangerously but—true to form—Dorian didn’t back down from a quip when thrown.

“My footsies are _freezing_ , thank you!”

Sera giggled at that, muttering “footsies!” under her breath a couple of times as the punch-line to some inside joke that Bull didn’t get—and probably didn’t want to get if he were perfectly honest. The twists and turns in that archer’s mind could make even his head spin and as a former Ben-Hassrath, that was really saying something.

Bull just turned back and trudged a few more steps through the snow, starting up an incline. “Better hike up your skirt, mage boy!”

Dorian let out a furious sputter. “I’m not _wearing_ a skirt!”

Bull sneered. “You trip on all that bustling whatever, don’t come crying to me.”

“Just a little further, Dorian,” the boss suddenly cut in, “and then we’ll be in camp.” Her tone was just gentle enough to be understanding, but firm enough to keep the grumpy ‘vint moving. Her gaze was for the Bull, however, eyebrow quirked and lips pursed with just a touch of bland disapproval. Expression stating quite clearly for him to _‘knock it off.’_

Ah, boss. Ever the peace-keeper.

Evelyn Trevelyan was a strong woman, a powerful mage and a great leader—but she never used those strengths when simple kindness and reasoning would do. She also had a tendency to mother-hen just about everyone in her immediate vicinity, a trait they both shared if he were to be completely honest with himself. It was one of the many reasons why they got on so well, why he respected her so much.

Why he’d left the Qun and everything that was familiar to him behind, shouldered the mantle of the dreaded Tal-Vashoth. Because the boss told him to, because she’d let him know that it was _okay_. It was okay that he loved his boys, his Chargers, more than he loved his purpose under the Qun. That it was ok to choose his _people_ over his people. And then she helped him live with that choice. It was a debt he doubted he’d ever be able to repay.

Though maybe he could start in some small and unexpected ways, the Bull thought, listening as Dorian let out another sulky grumble from somewhere behind him.

It was an hour or more of trekking before they finally topped the last rise and the Inquisition’s camp came into view. Everything was as they left it, two large brown tents pitched in the snow and a handful of Inquisition soldiers patrolling the area, keeping it that way. Dorian didn’t waste any time, quickly ducking into one of them and then snapping the flap back shut behind him against the biting wind and Sera’s teasing snicker.

The elven archer herself settled on a near-by boulder, digging out a biscuit from her pack and beginning to gnaw on it in between checking through her remaining supply of arrows. The boss stepped over to one of the soldiers, accepting what was probably yet another requisitions request. Bull made sure the fire outside was well stoked—it was, the soldiers knew their roles well—then he slipped the huge battle-axe from its harness across his back before ducking into the same tent Dorian had disappeared into a moment ago.

Bull found the ‘vint much as he thought he would, huddled into a tight shivery ball under every scrap of fabric he could lay claim to. The qunari snorted a little at the sight, for now ignoring Dorian’s grumpy scowl that followed his every movement. Instead he stepped to his side of the tent—hunched over so his horns didn’t bring the whole thing down around their ears—planting the blade of his axe into the cleared ground with a satisfying _‘thump!’_ well within arm’s reach of his bedroll. Then Bull knelt, settling down onto said pallet with a deceptive grace for one of his great size.

“Seriously,” Dorian muttered after a moment of semi-silence—if teeth-chattering counted toward breaking said silence, that is. “How are you not frozen solid?!”

Bull grinned. “Maybe if you wore clothes that actually covered you and were insulated with more than just sassy wishful thinking, you wouldn’t be so cold.”

The ‘vint’s response to that was to huff with pure, unbridled indignation.

“You mean one of those _beige_ affairs they tried to foist off on me before we left? The ones with the tacky cut and ratty fur inseam? I’d rather freeze.” He turned away a little, pouting sulkily at the brazier near-by. The flickering fire-light danced in his hooded hazel eyes. “Honestly. I’m told they came from Denerim, which means it was probably _dog_ fur.”

Iron Bull could care less at the moment for Dorian’s need to always be seen in his finest plumage. Right now he was a little more concerned with the very real possibility of frostbite. He suddenly recalled Dorian’s quip about ‘freezing footsies’ with a frown and wondered just how true that had been.

“Let me see your feet.”

Dorian’s head snapped back to him at that, his hood and blanket-cocoon slipping down off his head. “I beg your pardon?” he sputtered, looking lost somewhere between disbelief and righteous indignation. Bull didn’t have time for that either.

“Your feet,” he rumbled, turning more firmly in Dorian’s direction and reaching for the mass of blankets, guessing at where a leg might be hidden under all of it. “Get ‘em out here.”

“What are you—let _go_ of—unhand me _at once_ you great big horned oaf!”

Iron Bull ignored Dorian’s furious sputtering insults as thoroughly as he ignored the smaller mage’s thrashing attempt to get free of him. Instead the qunari managed to catch an ankle and tug it out of the blankets, easily holding on when Dorian attempted to twist and squirm out of his grasp. He started pulling through the laces and buckles of the knee-high leather boot the ‘vint wore, then tugged it free, managing not to grin and laugh at Dorian’s continued flailing and furious, hissing Tevene insults through sheer force of will and training. The woolen stocking Dorian wore under his boots got yanked off next, revealing his bare foot at last.

Bull was pleased to note no purple or blackened extremities, no sign of frostbite at all. The fact that the foot in his hands was also high arched, smooth and perfectly manicured—three of the toes even sporting tiny golden rings to match the multitude on his fingers—didn’t surprise him either.

The foot _was_ pretty cold though . . . .

Dorian scowled up at him from where he’d been somewhat upended onto his back, flustered and mustache almost twitching with fury. “Are you quite finished you giant lummox— _oh!_ . . . oh . . . _Oh Maker . . . .”_

Dorian suddenly fell back completely onto his bedroll, boneless as the Bull’s large thumbs began rubbing strong, sure, circular strokes along the inside of his arch. Bull covered as much of the foot as he could with his hands—and given the size of his hands that was quite a lot—attempting to warm up the foot as best he could as well as massage out the aches and pains of their journey thus-far.

After a moment or two though his hands stilled again. When Dorian managed to lift his head and open his eyes he was met with Bull’s overly-innocent stare. It was especially hard to maintain, given that the mage’s formerly immaculate hair was currently standing up in a rather undignified crest. “So,” he rumbled, tone utterly neutral, “you want me to stop?”

 _“Fasta Vass_ , if you stop now I will _set you on fire!”_

Bull laughed full out at that but Dorian was beyond the point of taking offense. Especially when the qunari helpfully resumed the foot massage. The mage fell back onto his bedroll again instead.

All the while he watched Dorian with a carefully hooded, guarded look. The mage didn’t notice, too busy throwing his head back, fisting his hands into his blankets and purring out moans from the back of his throat that would make a dock-whore blush. Bull had to bite back a groan at the mental images that sprang to mind because of it.

The erotic display was both his reward and his punishment, Bull supposed. A damn gorgeous sight to behold no doubt, though stirring up a rather uncomfortable hardness in his groin that he had no real way of taking care of at the moment—other than a bit of privacy and his own fist.

Bull had teased the Tevinter mage in the past, flirted shamelessly because that was just his way and Dorian was a bit too reserved and bottled up than was probably healthy. Before now it had been more of a game though, nothing too serious. But now . . . . Bull suddenly wanted to make him writhe, make him arch off the ground, make him moan just like this, all for entirely different reasons than rubbing his feet. He wanted it, wanted Dorian. _He_ wanted something, just for the sake of wanting it. Not for the Qun, not for the Inquisition, not for the Chargers. Just for him. It was a heady feeling, almost as frightening as it was exhilarating.

It was no secret that Iron Bull liked pretty things after all, and damn him if Dorian Pavus wasn’t very, _very_ pretty.

When Bull carefully set Dorian’s foot down on the bedroll several minutes later, he tried not to laugh when the mage’s other booted foot came flying out from under the blankets. As it was he let out a deep—if somewhat raspy—chuckle, rearing away just enough to keep from getting kicked in the face.

Bull lifted an eyebrow and somehow the rumpled mage managed to look haughty while wriggling his ankle expectantly. “Go on then, get on with it,” he commanded imperiously. Bull rolled his eye, but reached out and started undoing the laces all the same.

“Awfully bossy all of a sudden,” he pretended to grumble. Dorian just threaded his fingers over his belly and grinned.

“You know you love it.”

Well. He wasn’t _wrong_.

**Author's Note:**

> Abrupt ending is abrupt . . . I might continue this, I'm not sure. Thinking of perhaps a collection of little Adoribull one-shots and drabbles. We'll see. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
